


Failure Is Not an Option

by TheProfessionalShooshPapper



Category: South Park
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-24
Updated: 2012-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-30 02:11:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/326615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheProfessionalShooshPapper/pseuds/TheProfessionalShooshPapper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Christophe gets put in the hospital, Gregory can't stop blaming himself for what happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't touched this story in awhile and figured I should upload it anyways. I may or may not add on to it, so I'm going to leave it as is.

A brown haired boy screamed out in agony, eyes wide shut, writhing among the white sheets of his hospital bed. Sheer terror etched into his features. A golden blonde British boy sat next to him, holding the brown haired boys hand for reassurance. Dark circles played under his eyes and a deep crease seemed forever prominent on his forehead.

"It's alright, Christophe. I'm here. I... I'm here..." the Brit winced as Christophe's nails dug into his hand.

The screaming ceased, leaving the boy sweating and gasping for air. He looked fragile. But, being locked inside your consciousness for a month would do that to someone, so it's no surprise. It was his fault that Christophe looked this way. If he hadn't been so stubborn. If they hadn't failed their mission. If he hadn't let Christophe go alone. If only he hadn't...

"Ze... Ze dogs... No-non... Not ze dogs..." the french accent whimpered through Christophe's lips.

"I'm so sorry..." Gregory began.

"Gregoree..."

He was so defenseless. Gregory felt a sharp pang of guilt in his heart as he looked over Christophe's body. His brown hair was disheveled per usual. A big piece of gauze was taped over his right eye where he had gotten a huge gash. He still had dirt under his fingernails and some on his face, a result of his obsession with digging.

Ze Mole. That's what he liked to be called, and the nickname fit well. His trusty shovel was lying up against the wall next to the bed. He never went anywhere without it. Christophe's body had many gashes, cuts, scrapes, bangs and bruises all over it. Even though he was almost done healing, it wasn't exactly a pretty site. A nurse, her name tag said 'Allison', peeked into the room.

"Gregory, sweetie," she said softly. They'd all gotten to know his name by now. He showed up every day and never moved from Christophe's side. The stubborn part of him, the part that had partially been responsible for his friend's poor condition, forced him to watch over his friend as he were a guardian angel.

"Visiting hours are over, hun."

The Brit nodded, not bothering to turn and face her. He leaned in towards the boy's ear.

"I'll come back for you tomorrow, mon ami," he whispered, adding in the french phrase that Christophe had used so many times before.

Gregory stood, gently squeezing the french boy's hand before placing it lightly across his abdomen. Sighing, he glanced over his friend one last time like he had millions of times that day. Noting that Christophe seemed to be at peace at the moment, Gregory turned and walked silently out of the hospital.

Gregory sat on the beige couch, idly staring at the wall, teacup in hand. He was back at home, alone, without Christophe's company. It was strange. The feeling of being alone, and Gregory was nowhere near getting used to it. He could imagine Christophe scolding at him with his back turned, "Gregoree! Don't be a leetle beetch! Stop walloweeng een your self pitee. Go. Make yourself useful."

And then he would turn around, watching him with narrowed eyes.

"Don't forget ze meession," he would say, before walking out of the room. Then Gregory would roll his eyes, combing his fingers through his golden locks. After contemplating for a minute what the french boy had said, he would then grudgingly stand up and follow him. Gregory sighed, defeated. After all his petty worries, their mission should run smoothly.

But not this time. This time they had failed, just barely escaping. He was lucky enough to on have several small wounds and a broken bone or two. But Christophe, he wasn't so lucky. He always suffered the brunt of the injuries on their missions, but they were never this bad. They had been ambushed, with virtually no escape. Christophe had gotten slashed, right under his left eye, and stabbed, right through the abdomen, missing vital organs by only millimeters. He had crumpled to the ground, clutching his stomach, hitting his head harshly on the concrete floor. The doctors had diagnosed him with a grade 3 concussion. On top of all that, there had been guard dogs. After Christophe had fallen, the dogs had assaulted him. They'd bit him everywhere. Arms, legs, stomach, face. One dog grabbed one of his legs and dragged him a good 30 feet or so before Gregory jumped in, ripping the canine's jaw from his dear friend's leg. All the blood. Gregory shuddered at the thought. So much blood. In theory, Christophe should have been dead. Just when all hope seemed lost, Damien interjected, sending the perpetrators straight to hell. A malicious grin was plastered to his face as he turned to Gregory. "He's one lucky son of a bitch," he had chuckled darkly, before fading into the shadows.

Gregory could feel sleep heavy on his eyelids. At first he was tempted to fight it, just in case the hospital called with any progress. But he knew Christophe would be livid with him later on. Laying his head back, he stretched across the couch, resting his teacup on the coffee table in front of the couch. Allowing the night to overtake him, he fell into a dreamless sleep.vv


	2. Chapter 2

He screamed in panicked frustration. He could hear it, but he couldn't see them. Barking. Oh shit. The barking. He searched around wildly for an escape. Nothing. It was pitch black. The howling was getting louder. Closer. The jaws. The teeth. The slobber. The malicious animosity. It was all drawing nearer. His breathing became unsteady and shallow. He tried to remember his training. Keep your emotions in check, especially fear. He'd passed all of his training. But this phobia was like no other. To any other person, it'd be the equivalent of seeing a 90 foot glob of black, liquid shadow, with 20 bill ion needles for teeth, one huge glowing red eye, and 800 slimy tentacles that were all reaching out to snatch you.

In his desperation, he started mumbling to himself, "Ze-ze dogs... No-non. Not ze dogs!" Thinking frantically, Christophe decided it was better to run than just stand there and panic. He tore off in the direction he was facing, not caring where he was going, he couldn't see anyways. Adrenaline burned through his veins, allowing him to run faster, faster, faster still, until he ran into something, or someone.

"I'm so sorry..." they breathed, sounding pained. He couldn't believe his ears. It couldn't be who he thought it was.

"Gregoree?" he gasped hopefully. But there was no reply. He felt a hand squeezing one of his own, and then nothing. He was alone, surrounded by a cloud of black.

A few days later...  
Gregory kept himself preoccupied with the movie that was on the television for a little while. It was a great movie, and applied to his and Christophe's lives. He smiled as the protagonist introduced himself. Christophe knew the monologue by heart and wold occasionally mumble it to himself before a mission, 'just for good luck.' Gregory let himself be overcome with the bittersweet memories as the time slowly ticked by.  
Christophe knew those words. Whose words were they? Where were they coming from?  
"Remember remember the 5th of November, The gunpowder treason and plot. I know of no reason, why the gunpowder treason, should ever be forgot."  
As he listened to the words, he got a vague feeling of famliarity. V For Vendetta. That was it.  
He smiled to himself as V introduce himself. That guy had a way with words. Christophe let the sounds of the movie wash over him. He could see the movie without even watching it. this was only because he'd watched it so many times before. He started reciting his favorite lines as they came up.  
"Governments should be afraid of zere people."  
Suddenly the sounds stopped. Why?  
"Christophe? ...Cristophe. Are you there? Can you hear me? Oh, please, god, please, tell me you can hear me.""Guh...Gregoree? Why... can't I see you?"  
There was a soft,strained chuckle, "Open your eyes, idiot."  
The suggestion sounded foreign at first, but slowly he opened his eyes. It was so white. Christophe moved to sheild his eyes but stopped as sharp pains stabbed at him from every angle.  
"Sssss... Bright," he hissed as he squinted his eyes.  
A movement to his right caught his attention and suddenly the brightness faded.  
He turned his head to find the cause and there sat Gregory. Gregory, with his perfect angelic face and golden hair. Gregory, his guardian angel, his best friend, his partner, the, unrequited, love of his life.  
Christophe grumbled, rubbing his eyes and squinting some more, "Mon ami... Where am I?"


End file.
